


Burning Bright

by Ramzes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: All of Daeron II's children burned bright, each with their own light. A series of happy or not so happy childhood stories from a pre-canon era.





	1. Rhaegel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Baelorfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baelorfan/gifts).



> To Baelorfan who said that stories about Daeron II's children growing up were just as tasty as chocolate but less calorific. I'm afraid this one might be more of a dark chocolate but I love dark chocolate, so perhaps you will as well. Happy New Year!

"How many seamstresses we're going to need to sew clothes for all the beggars we saw today down the road?"

The Princess of Dragonstone looked up from the accounts she was reviewing, and smiled. "Many," she replied. "As many as tens of thousands," she added and Rhaegel's eyes went wide. At five years, a hundred seemed incredibly huge for him, a thousand – almost impossible to imagine.

From the courtyard below, shouts arose and drew her to the window. The sight made her smile: in the white courtyard below, Baelor and Elaena's eldest boy attacked, drew back, and circled each other, so absorbed in their occupation that she could almost believe she was hearing the song of steel as their wooden blades danced. She quickly looked away before succumbing to the urge to open the window and shout a dozen maternal warnings. Snow was still amazing to her, after nine years here, but the ice glistening here and there made her anxious. Still, her boys navigated it far better than her. Even little Maekar rarely slipped and when he did fall, he simply rose and dusted himself off. Mariah still remembered the horror when she had fallen with him in her arms. He had been as young as ten months then, and as she had frantically reached over for him, he had used the moment to check what snow tasted like and having apparently liked it, he had offered her a fistful. She could still hear Daeron's laughter, relief and amusement melting. No, Baelor wouldn't slip but still she would rather not watch. He'd be mortified if she succumbed and cried out a warning.

"When are we going to summon them?" Rhaegel asked. "They need to start work immediately. It's so cold outside and beggars don't have houses to live in, do they? That's why they're beggars."

"Often, they don't," Mariah confirmed. "They don't have fire to warm themselves at. That's why it's so important that we, who are blessed to be princess and princesses, should work hard to improve their condition."

The ladies around her stirred anxiously. Mariah realized that once again, she had spoken like a man, a king or king in waiting should speak like. Her words weren't this different from Daeron's own sentiments but he was a _king_ in waiting. And the idea that a queen _or_ king should work for the beggars was so foreign to those powdered, bejeweled women around her that they might well consider her mad.

Rhaegel's eyes went wide. "They don't have fire?" he exclaimed. "Mother, we should made some for them! And clothes! When can the seamstresses arrive?"

Mariah smiled at his earnest way to right the world's wrongs. "It's quite impossible, Rhaegel," she explained. "They'll need fabrics, threads, and money to be paid and we just don't have this many. But that's why we have our charities. With the money your father and I give from our own allowance, three thousand beggars receive a hot morning meal every day and I support a charity that finds employment for beggars so they can no longer be beggars."

His eyes welled up and she realized that he had stopped hearing her words, something that happened to him quite often. "No fire!" he repeated.

"We try to provide fire for them," his mother said again, hopelessly trying to avoid what would happen next. As he usually did when something upset him, he'd enclose himself into a world of his own where no one could reach him. Sure enough, he started taking his tunic off. "Give it to those children that we saw begging," he said. "Give all my clothes to them."

"No…" she said weakly but it was too late. Her ladies from Dragonstone weren't surprised at all but the ones she was forced to endure at her grandfather's court sat goggled-eyed as her son started swaying like a mindless doll, screaming every time someone tried to come close. All that happened in the few moments Mariah needed to close the distance between them. He howled as she carried him outside – by the Seven, what would happen when he became too big for her to control? - and by the time they reached his chambers, he was already hanging limp in her arms. She placed him in bed, deciding against putting any other clothes on him since the touch of any fabric seemed to be hurting him in such moments; when he went to sleep, she headed for the royal library. Aerys looked up from his book for a moment and smiled at her; relief overpowering her, she walked to the nursery. Maekar was sleeping soundly and she stayed before his bed for a long time, wondering if he'd be lucky enough to escape the Targaryen curse. He was too young for her to know for sure, although Rhaegel had already started showing peculiarities at this age. The nursemaid was asleep and although it was technically not right for a royal child this young to stay unattended even as he slept, Mariah decided against waking her up. She kissed her youngest and left, spotting Baelor and Daenerys with the edge of her eye. They dashed into the first hall in their way as soon as they saw her which meant that they had something they knew was bad in mind but Mariah decided not to pursue the matter. She was just so happy to see them naughty, smart and _sane_.

"Tell the Prince that I'm too tired and I've retired to my bed," she told her onetime nursemaid who, of course, had accompanied her from Dorne.

"You want me to lie to him?" Lelia demanded.

"Why, would you rather have me dine with him and let him see the truth?" Mariah shot back. Of course, Daeron would know about that little episode by now and he would be happy to avoid her in this first hour when he couldn't help it but think that he was the reason and Mariah couldn't help it but remember that their son's curse was Daeron's blood.

* * *

 


	2. Baelor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Baelorfan and Golden_Daughter, for commenting!

The sharp attention that the steward of the Red Keep was following him with amused Baelor and the horror the man was trying to hide almost made up for the loss of a third win against Jon in a row. Baelor had just been better at mastering the particular swing and blow that the maester at-arms had shown them today but Jeyne's arrival had put an end to his hopes for a clean sweep to crown the today practice. The worst thing was, he was sure Jon wasn't trying to prevent yet another defeat when he supported Jeyne's claim that he had promised to accompany her to the Dragonpit. He was ridiculously scared of quarreling with her, although he denied it passionately and Baelor had the bleeding lip to prove it. Was that what having a sister was like? Meaning that one could not be a man? Not that they were men at all but still!

The noise from the onetime Maidenvault drew him even closer. The renovation works were another world, one that appealed to him greatly – the shouts, the bulging muscles, the white thick liquid that would turn into hard mortar, the walls stripped to wood or stones, only to become a smooth surface, the laughter, the stinking water in their water-skins, the meat that was roasted so hard that it could break a tooth, the delight of the men that he had come… the butts filled with tar and whatnot interesting liquids that just begged to be jumped in. It was a series of such accidents that Baelor still thought with delight about that drove Ser Allean to follow him around as he saw him near the masons. Baelor sped for the nearest bucket, gleefully noticing how the steward gave up on his manners and bleated out a plea for him to stop. Those old men were so boring, they didn't understand anything of fun and they had long forgotten how joyful a child's life might be.

"Do you think it's so very funny?"

The voice stopped Baelor dead in his tracks. Slowly, very slowly, he looked up. His father looked calm but it was the calmness that frightened Baelor more than his mother's yells. Wide eyes, filled with chagrin and sad amazement that Baelor could have acted like this were worse than any anger and that was what he was seeing in his father's eyes now. Wordlessly, Daeron grabbed the boy by the shoulders and turned him around. "Look at him," he ordered. "Give him a good look, I say."

Reluctantly, Baelor did. As Ser Allean approached, he realized how heavily the old man was breathing, how more pronounced his limp now was, how battle scars stood out more sharply on a face white with fear.

"Do you feel pleased?" Daeron asked flatly. "Do you feel satisfied?"

Silently, Baelor shook his head.

"Do you think it's the way to treat someone who had grown old in our service?" Daeron went on so softly that only Baelor could hear – he had no desire to contribute to Ser Allean's further mortification.

The boy looked down, shame rising to his cheeks and turning them brown, the shade his mother's skin turned whenever she blushed. The bucket suddenly looked like such a stupid idea.

"I'm sorry, Ser Allean," he said when the man stopped before them because Daeron wouldn't do it for him. If Baelor was old enough to do the deed, he was old enough to offer the apology, that was his father's principle.

The steward's indignant expression softened. "I do accept your apology, Your Grace," he said seriously, a twinkle in his eye telling Baelor that perhaps he hadn't forgotten what the joy to jump into a bucket of water felt like. But his breathing was still labored, the fear not quite gone from his face and Baelor looked down again.

Daeron exchanged a few words with the old man and went on his way, nodding at Baelor to follow him. They left behind the disappointed murmur of the men but this time, the boy had no desire to join and watch them, and even try to help.

Daeron's arms hung at his sides. Instead of a warrior's calluses, they bore the traces of ink spots, and Baelor so much wanted for them to go up and hit him… But they didn't. He felt relieved when his father said, "Go inside. You aren't allowed to leave the building for any reason. Your practice for today has been cancelled. "

His relief lasted for about half a day, at which point he'd rather even be sitting at his father's side in Daeron's work room as advisors, men helping Dragonstone run smoothly, lords, knights, and suppliants filed in and out. No practice meant no chance to master the new blow further; in the classroom, the maesters made much of Aerys who had read the book about the history of Valyria in advance and could present his questions in advance. Naturally! Although he had to admit that it was kind of funny when his brother started asking questions that put the old archives in doubt. The maesters turned as red as beef! Still, it was humiliating when he had a question and Maester Siberius absent-mindedly asked Aerys if he could answer. Daenerys stared at Aerys with resentment as well.

"What are you going to do now?" Baelor asked when, finally, the lesson was over and Aerys headed for the library, not having even registered their dislike at being schooled by him. _Or perhaps having registered it too well_ , Baelor thought but he wasn't going to land himself into another misstep now.

"I don't know."

She looked subdued and Baelor offered, "Do you want us to go and measure Ochie against Maekar?"

That was a thing she had always enjoyed, since she had been given the bear made of cloth and fur, twice the size of Baelor's youngest brother at his birth. Ochie the Oucher had accompanied her everywhere, providing warmth in her bed during winter and ouching when she was hurt. She and Baelor's mother measured Ochie and Maekar against each other every week and Daenerys loved that.

But not today. "They're now equal in size," she said unhappily. "Soon, Maekar would be bigger than my babe."

"Well," Baelor said as they turned right, "you didn't actually expect that Maekar would stop growing or Ochie would start, did you?"

She made no reply and it occurred to him that she might have expected it. Her disappointment was so clear that Baelor simply had to find a way to make things right. "Listen," he offered, inspired all of a sudden , "let's mark the day of their equal height, what says you?"

Daenerys wasn't all that enthused but it changed when he told her his plan. His father's order now forgotten – and he had been true to it for half a day! – he made a dash at the finished part of the Maidenvault where Lady Bethany Bracken, recently arrived at court, would be placed. In a long corridor, a few buckets of paint waited. He gave them an examining look and without thinking twice, grabbed the one with the blue content, leaving dark splashes behind him and ignoring the shout of someone coming from behind the corner.

In his chamber, Daenerys had already brought the bear and spied on the rooms they had to keep an eye on. "She's sleeping," she said breathlessly. "They both are."

But when they rounded the corner and made it for the nursery, the sight of Baelor's mother leaving it made them run through the first door nearby. "I thought you said they were sleeping!" Baelor hissed. "What is she doing there?"

"She must have come after I left!" Daenerys whispered back but even without it, Baelor knew that there was no way for her to have known. They waited for a while until they were satisfied that Mariah wouldn't call them to come to her; when they realized that she had chosen to go her way, their heart started beating with their usual rhythms.

In the nursery, Maekar's poor nursemaid was indeed sleeping but the boy woke up as the door creaked open. Fortunately, Maekar was a child who woke up quietly; as Baelor came near with a finger put to his lips, the little one seemed to understand because he made no sound. He even rose to make it easier for Baelor to drag him from behind the bars they had placed for his protection.

Unfortunately, that was about the extent of his cooperation. As soon as he was free from his prison, Maekar insisted that he walk on his own; grumbling, Baelor wondered what to do. "Take him!" Daenerys insisted in whisper. "You know how noisily he clambers."

But a look at his brother's pout made Baelor rethink this sensible reason. He put the boy on the floor and took him by the hand.

Daenerys was right. Maekar was about as quiet as a herd of oxen. But even this didn't rouse Maryse from her sleep while crying certainly would have; chest puffing with indignation, Daenerys walked before them to hold the door open and both held their breath as it creaked again.

In Baelor's bedchamber, the paint shone invitingly. As Baelor took a cloth and made the first dash of colour and Daenerys reached for Ochie, Maekar did their work for them: he simply stepped into the bucket with a shout of delight when he saw his blue hands.

"How are we going to clean the paint from the rug?" Daenerys suddenly asked, looking at the blue splashes. "They're going to catch us for sure!"

Baelor wasn't this concerned. "I think they're going to catch us for sure when they see that both Maekar and Ochie are blue," he said. "I suppose we can deny it was us?"

Daenerys shrugged and after an additional moment of thought threw the bear in the bucket with Maekar and Baelor leaned at them with a ewer because the paint didn't even reach his brother's shoulders, let alone his head.

"Are you mad?" Aerys yelled from the door. "You may kill him!"

In the long years of their growing up, this day would stay in Baelor's memories as one of the very few occasions when he was glad that Aerys rushed to their parents to tell on him.

 


	3. Aerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Baelorfan and Golden_Daughter, for commenting. Some chocolate for both of you and an additional block for Baelorfan of behalf of the great interest shown to this story!

At Baelor's presentation, her goodfather's expression was one of such distaste that Mariah felt sure: was it up to Aegon, he would have ordered the dark babe to be kept in an isolated part of the Red Keep. A dilapidated one if possible.

Fortunately, there was the King's obvious satisfaction, the Hand's smile and her goodmother's doting adoration. They didn't care what colouring her son was, yet even this early, Mariah could fell the dismay coming from certain people – she remembered their names from that blasted book of the Young Dragon's! And while she wouldn't demean herself to speak derisively of Princess Daena's silver boy, born mere months after her own – she would not acknowledge him as a true rival for her son, ever – she knew that there were many who did compare them. Pit them against each other. She was so grateful that Baelor was a robust, curious toddler with a sharp desire to investigate everything he came across – by putting it in his mouth, mainly, which horrified her a little at first but she figured out that toddlers rarely died from eating something that wasn't meant for eating at all and hers surely wouldn't be the first one to do so.

Still, it jarred her to hear the whispers, know that her son was being referred to as the Dornish one, as if they expected that one day, he'd subjugate the Iron Throne to the rule of Sunspear. And as she became great with child once again, she hated herself for praying for a son who would be all Daeron writ small – a defense for her and him and a defense for Baelor as well in this world where her goodfather was now king, Queen Naerys barely clung to life after facing the birthing bed once again, and the antipathy between Daeron and his father became more obvious.

When he was born, small and fair, with a tuff of silver and gold and eyes that were purple this early on, she wept with love and relief that it was over and yes, with triumph and fear, the true extent of which she only came to know now that it was overcome. With mortification for being so unwilling to lend her own features to her babe. Was she this cowardly?

"No," Daeron assured her. "You are this wise."

She clung to his words because she wanted to be wise and sensible and not a craven.

Everyone who came to visit noted on this resemblance between father and son, leaving Mariah under the impression that they commended her for doing it right. This time round. Even those she was certain did not mean to imply that Baelor was somehow lacking. Only Elaena was different.

"He is like Daeron," she said, smiling. "Daeron was the same in the way he went about things – he wanted to inspect them from all sides before putting them in his mouth!"

Mariah laughed. At this moment, she didn't have any idea that she was witnessing what would become a constant pattern in their life – Aerys examining things, yet distancing himself from them.

"Are you training to be a maester?" she would ask jokingly when she saw her second son, still too young to crawl, tearing a pillow apart and turning all the feathers in his hands before sucking at them. Or turning Daeron's books the right way – Daeron was too busy saving them to realize that their son _knew_ the right position.

"Is he training to be a maester?" the King would ask disdainfully in the rare event his eyes fell on his grandson who was constantly "reading" quietly in Daeron's solar as the two men had one of their arguments that quickly flared up in downright hostility.

"He's training to be the second most important man in House Targaryen when the time comes," Daeron usually answered calmly, knowing that it was the best way to take a jab at his father who would rather die, than be seen with a book. A book that wasn't devoted to the ways of debauchery, that was it. And decorated with telling pictures, preferably. _And they call_ us _lecherous_ , Mariah thought as resentfully as joyously she laughed when she found apples and books bitten all over and hidden in all parts of their chambers that Aerys had crawled through. Since it amused her to see them, the maidservants had learned to leave them where they were, although Daeron would scowl at every leather binding bearing the imprint of teeth, even as Mariah reasonably pointed out that Aerys had not actually _broken_ it. Truth be told, she feared more that her son would break a tooth in one of those musty old stones Daeron called his most cherished books! Of course, she suspected that her lord husband was more concerned about the books…

* * *

The first thing that truly concerned Mariah about Aerys was his lack of affinity for other children. He didn't even follow Baelor around when he learned how to walk, not enough to set her mind at ease. He preferred to sit around with a book before he even learned how to read and Mariah was surprised that he seemed capable of following the lines quite consistently… which was what he was doing when she saw him going through a tome that was too thick to be one of those he was read every night.

"Aerys, where did you take this from?" Mariah asked and he jumped and tried to hide it behind his back – a futile effort because it stuck from both sides of his thin frame. A boy who had only recently celebrated his third nameday was not this wide. The book, though…

"Found her?" he suggested and Mariah gave him a long look.

"Truly?" she asked thoughtfully. "You found _it_? This looks like one of the books in your father's solar to me."

Daeron's books were, of course, lying around everywhere in their chambers. He felt personally affronted if the servants tried to put them in some order, claiming that he could never find the ones he needed this way. She had barely succeeded in convincing him that they would not disappear if the women just cleaned underneath and placed them back… but she could now see that he had been right in complaining that some had been misplaced. Or rather, stolen. By a three year old who couldn't read yet.

"Aerys has a hiding place," Baelor said mysteriously and his brother howled in rage; rather tiredly, Mariah wondered what they had quarreled about this time. Their arguments were beyond her – by the Mother, Aerys still had trouble pronouncing some of his words right! – but they were no less fierce for it.

Baelor led her to Aerys' bedchamber. To her surprise, he knelt down and pushed the chest the nursemaid sat in in the night before Aerys went to sleep to left and Mariah almost leaned down to inspect the thick tomes more closely, only this protruding belly would not let her. Even so, she recognized a few of the titles, carved in gold in the leather. _Daeron will be pleased,_ she thought and gave the little book thief and his brother a stern look. "Why did you take them without asking first?" she asked. "Why did you let him and not say anything either to your lord father or me?"

She saw the moment the enmity between her sons faded. Joined in their shared trouble, they looked at each other, thinking hard. And then, at the same time, "Rhaegel told us to!" they chirped.

Mariah burst out laughing, keeping a hand on her belly to calm down the babe who vigorously demanded to take part in the mirth and then proceeded to explain to her boys what their chance to be believed was, given the fact that their brother was just eleven moons old…

 


	4. Maekar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for commenting!

The ridiculous wood and iron monstrosities rose higher and wider as the child in her womb grew. Never before had this blessed condition left her this exhausted, her breathing tortured, her feet hurting when she spent more than a few minutes standing. "That's because you were not quite recovered yet when you got with this child," midwives told her, giving her looks of concern and untold reproach – why hadn't she made sure that it wouldn't come to this if she had to accept her lord husband so soon after the last birth, instead of pleading weariness and feeling unwell? It wasn't as if he would have guessed the truth – what did men knew about giving birth? And she hadn't even needed to give him an heir. Three healthy boys in such a short term were more than enough.

"Do you not want to see a maester?" Daeron asked her in the privacy of their bedchamber. "You don't look good, Mariah."

But she didn't dare. The maesters were Aegon's men. Everyone in the Red Keep was. They'd tell him immediately and there was no telling how he'd spin it into his favour. His constant attempts to coerce Daeron into repudiating her only made her anxiety grow. She was quite sure he was behind the malicious rumour that she'd give birth to a deformed child, as monstrous as those dragons of his… If it became known what a hard time she was having, a few drops in her plate or goblet would be enough to produce a dead child – a proof that her marriage was cursed, so she only sought the care of trusted midwives, dealt with her everyday duties and stood until she felt that her legs would give out…

"The child will be unhappy," she said the night before the dragons left to wreak fire and blood on her homeland.

Daeron gave her a startled look. "What kind of nonsense is this? Mariah, how can you?"

"An unhappy child, unhappy!" she repeated, her eyes following the bright wildfire display that the dragons and their crew had put up for the King this last night. All the Red Keep had gone out to watch. Mariah and Daeron had refused. She could feel the truth of her words to the very marrow of her bones. _Let this babe not take the bitterness of the days I'm living now_ , she begged the Seven. _The time my goodfather is trying to seize my homeland…_

He was born a month before expected, a terrible experience that left her bedridden for weeks, her face burning with shame and embarrassment when the midwives tried to help her use the chamber pot in her bed and she couldn't force herself to relax enough to do it. But he was healthy and vigorous and it was all worth it. He was all silver hair – all five tufts of it – and violet eyes and Mariah couldn't help but smile imagining her goodfather's face when he'd first see him. No bad omen. No dead child. No deformity.

But it seemed that someone else couldn't wait.

Maekar had been born in the hour of ghosts and Mariah had gone to sleep as soon as the maesters had decided that it was not dangerous for her. A heavy sleep that didn't let her feel the constant coming and going of maesters, midwives, servants, and Daeron. One that broke to pieces by a thunderous thud, a scream, and a babe's crying that made her jump up, her feebleness pushed away by a primal fear. The cradle had collapsed and Baelor had fallen over it. Squashing the babe. He screamed again when his mother seized him and tossed him on the bed. Mariah dropped to her knees, frantically reaching for the babe. He was crying. He was crying, so he was alive. She took him in her arms and then realized that there was no way she could rise.

"I only wanted to see him!" Baelor was saying. Clearly, he knew he was in a big trouble so he was trying to explain even before asked. "He grabbed me by the finger and squeezed!"

Mariah tried to tell him that he should summon the servants but the effort had made her so weak that her voice was a mere thread. She knew that she might swoon any moment and reached down to place Maekar on the floor, so she would not drop him. But the door was suddenly thrown open and as she went to blissful oblivion, she knew that someone had come.

The next day, she realized that Baelor's explanation had been truthful. Maekar had an amazingly strong grasp when given a finger. "I won't mind for His Grace to come to know about it," she murmured, still smarting with resentment over her goodfather's vile insinuations.

"He won't be impressed," Daeron said, taking the child from her arms and staring at him. _He_ didn't seem impressed either and Mariah felt guilty. Daeron had wanted a daughter this time. What use would he have of a fourth son? "He has more pressing matters to worry about."

She looked at him, her eyes asking the question without words.

"His dragons got smashed in the Boneway," Daeron replied, his hand stroking Maekar' soft head to keep the babe quiet but his thoughts far away.

_Perhaps it's an omen_ , Mariah thought. _Perhaps this babe will live in a time of peace._

* * *

It was a constant war, right from the moment he had his third bath. As usual, the first time Mariah watched, comforting herself with the thought that if he cried, he lived. The second time, she waved it off as him not used to water yet. But the third time, the screams and crying that turned his face a violent shade of violet, darker than his eyes told her that her youngest really, _really_ minded baths. As a result, she broke her habit of having everything about her new babes done in front of her for the first weeks and ordered to the wetnurse to take him away. A few rooms and a hallway away, this strong was his voice. Mariah hated listening to her children cry, even when it was for their own good and in her hard recovery, getting upset was the last thing she needed.

Then, the matter of swaddling. Maekar hated this as well and while he wasn't unusual in this attitude – which babe liked being wrapped like this? – he was the first of hers to shake and seize uncontrollably upon feeling the dreaded cocoon get tight around him. The sight was extremely distressing for both Mariah and Daeron and although the Grand Maester assured them that it was unlikely for the child to injure himself, Daeron unwrapped the swaddling the third day around and while the rumours of their indulgence and the terribly spoiled child that would no doubt result from this was sure to abound at court, Mariah felt much better not wondering if her son would do something to his limbs with all those protestations, let alone not hearing his loud complaints or the pitiful little heap he was when he got exhausted from wailing and squirming and fell asleep.

To her relief, he was growing well, as robust as only Baelor had been. Still, Mariah worried. He was too young to say for sure that he had escaped all the dangers of his prematurity. Why he still hated baths? His brothers all loved them. And around the time of his nameday, his hearing started to deteriorate. He chatted to Rhaegel, to his wooden toys, and the puppies Baelor had dragged to their chambers but Mariah and Maryse, the nursemaid he was so fond of needed to tell him a few times that he should come out from under the table. Maryse, young and without children of her own, was more prone to just reach down and take him out but Mariah knew that her son had to learn to follow commands, so they talked themselves hoarse until they finally made him heard them – usually by raising their voices so much that he would turn around and look at them confused before starting babbling in his own young language. "Why are you shouting?" Baelor translated readily but later the same day, the scene would repeat with something else. Was this one of the manifestations of the too early birth? Like the nails that Maekar had been born without, but unlike them, something that would not resolve with age? In fact, it seemed to grow worse.

It was Baelor who put his mother's fears to rest. As Mariah wondered what to make of her exchanges with a child who would ask, "Out to snow?", she'd say "Yes. No, you can't take the soldiers" and he'd try to sneak one of them out anyway," Baelor simply entered her chambers, waving two of the fruits that had arrived from Dorne just yesterday. "Do you want a blood orange?" he asked in a whisper – Mariah wasn't sure who he was hiding from – and Maekar immediately turned around and said, "Yes." Maryse gasped and laughed and Mariah just felt foolish. Her apprehensions had prevented her from seeing what was right in front of her: Maekar was afflicted with the same hearing ailment the older ones had. He only heard what he wanted to. Baelor was already seven and gave no indication of recovering soon. In fact, Mariah had the idea that this event might never take place, given the fact that at twenty three, Daeron was suffering the same malady, especially when engrossed in a book.

All in all, Maekar seemed like the perfect child. Not as peculiar as Rhaegel. Not slow to start walking and talking. And, as much as Mariah hated that it mattered, not Dornish looking. Only if he could take bathing less painfully! If he had his way, he'd go around dirtier than any beggar child in Flea Bottom! No amount of scolding and even yelling could convince him to be put in the tub peacefully. It was all a war after which the nursery looked like the Summer Sea! The most strange thing was, he loved to be clean. But Mariah's authority seemed to be the only thing to make him just scream and not actively try to escape, so in the evening of every day, she sat into the nursery listening to him vociferate while Rhaegel, pressed against the door from the outside, whimpered, "Please, Mother, please, do not do this to him!" It was a good thing that the court had no access to the nursery, else everyone would know that she was putting her children to torment!

Sometimes, she seriously contemplated the idea of letting Maryse deal on her own or with someone else's help. It was ridiculous how a child who was not quite two could command her presence so often for such a trivial task! Usually, these thoughts visited her when she was tired and tormented by one of the headaches that had started during this last pregnancy. Or when the children were louder than usual, like the day Maekar rushed into the nursery waving an ivory dragon that was clearly very important for Rhaegel and being chased by his brother. He ran straight for the tub that was still being filled and jumped in it head first. Mariah screamed. The water was steaming hot, with just one bucket of cold… She reached frantically inside, the hot burning her skin but Maekar evaded her hands and pressed himself in the farthest corner. There were no tears. No shouting. He looked… content. Mariah took her hands out and looked at the angry blisters already forming on them. "Was that it?" she wondered aloud. "The water was just too cold for you? You wanted it scalding hot?"

"Hot!" he agreed happily, for once showing that he had heard her. Not that she believed he understood.

"That's a great hiding place," Baelor said with admiration, having just entered in search of the ivory dragon that must have been his, not Rhaegel's after all. Maekar just held the toy under the hot water and when Baelor tried to reach inside, Mariah stopped him. "A place where no one can reach you."

Maekar grinned and Mariah wondered if he did understand, after all.

 


	5. Baelor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, it helps building inspiration up!

The very first memory in his life was him asking his mother if he could rub the swarthy away. Yes, he had actually asked this – if he could rub the natural colour of his skin away. He could not remember what she answered. He couldn't even put a time or place to this memory but he knew it must have been at King's Landing – at Dragonstone, people were used to him and his father and family were prohibited, perhaps officially, from participating in processions. Had someone told him something directly? Perhaps, if the King had again given indications that his only trueborn son might be disinherited. Some of the braver lickspittles had taken the chance to show their enmity to Daeron and his family then. In the beginning. Because soon enough, everyone came to know that in the turbulent, volatile relationship between the King and the Prince of Dragonstone, it was always the lickspittles who took the brunt of Daeron's hostility, had they dared demonstrate their own when it had looked like he might fall. Aegon, the Fourth of his Name, was only too happy to give them over when the relationship was once again mended. Perhaps some of them had said something to their children who had then repeated it in front of Baelor? Or had he overheard someone saying it? He did not know. What he knew was that his father thought the skin the shade of olives unripe much more beautiful than the pale rosy one and his father should know. There were few things that Daeron Targaryen did not know.

"But I am a dragon, am I not?" Baelor remembered asking and how sad his mother suddenly looked. He remembered that as well. And how his father laughed and said that Balerion had been black and he had been a dragon big and true, at which point Baelor had lost any interest in the matter and had instead taken enthusiastically to the task of roaring like a dragon and scare his brothers. Unfortunately, it was the babe's nursemaid, Maryse, who looked most terrified, and Baelor immediately felt guilty.

"I am not a true dragon," he said, trying to calm her down because she was shaking so hard that she would drop Maekar any moment now. But then, he remembered that he had received a confirmation that he was a real dragon just a moment ago, so he thought hard of what to say. "I am not a _dragon_ dragon," he finally said and the young woman nodded.

"I am so relieved to hear that, Your Grace," she said seriously. A storm started howling behind the windows and Baelor felt insulted when Rhaegel and Maekar looked more scared of it than his dragon roar.

But those were memories he cherished. This had been a game. Later, at court, it was not.

Too dark. A true Martell. Nothing like a dragon. He heard those whispered behind his back and barely stopped himself from asking what a dragon should be like. Should he be so fat that he'd need increasingly bigger armours? Should he have dragons built, dragons that winds and fire would scatter away before they even approached something like a battlefield?

"I'd like to see Dorne," he said one night as he watched his mother take a seat near the fire, so close that should she come any closer, she'd turn into a toast soon enough. In the long winter that had lasted two years this far, Mariah had turned so wan that she could pass for a real Targaryen if not for her eyes and hair. The lack of sunlight made her weaker, almost sick, and he wanted to take her to the land that had given her birth, where the sun might be bright enough to make her better. To see the men and women everyone said he resembled. But while she smiled and told him that he would see her homeland one day, his father was more specific.

"Not anytime soon," he said. "We should not give the King any reason to spread additional rumours and cast more doubts about you. He'd be all too happy if he can claim you're a pure Martell and your visit with them proves it. I hope you see your mother's land one day – I hope I see it too – but not before it's safe for you."

"Safe?" Baelor asked bitterly. "Should I skin myself, perhaps? Will it be safe enough then?"

But at the same time, he was flattered to hear his father talk to him almost as if he were a man.

"When the King is no more, it will be safer," Daeron said. Here, at Dragonstone, with those he loved and trusted best, he had long ago given up on any pretensions that he felt any affection for the man sitting the Iron Throne. He never said "your grandfather", not since the day King Aegon had forced them to leave King's Landing for Dragonstone as planned and leave Maekar there until he recovered or died from the terrible ailment he had somehow become infected with – which had been not planned at all.

"I won't act to take his life away before his time comes and I think that's more than enough. Nothing more can be expected of me," Baelor's mother had said curtly and sometimes in the sept, watching her, Baelor wondered if she was praying for her goodfather's demise.

If so, the Seven did not hear her. Increasingly frail in his obesity, more spiteful by the day, disliked and hated by the great number of those he had wronged, Aegon still clung to life with the tenacity of a flea, as disrespectful as it was for Baelor to say it, even to himself! And he still managed to create troubles – in fact, it looked like his talent in this had blossomed since his girth had confined him to his chambers, mostly.

"He told Daemon that he should carry Blackfyre with him always, even sleep with her under his pillow," six-year-old Maekar told him the first day of the two weeks Baelor spent at court with their parents every year. "And he said he was sure Daemon could beat you with her," he added. "Daemon quite liked hearing it, I can say."

Sometimes, he spoke like someone at sixteen and not six. For a boy who had grown even more silent and withdrawn since they had been forced to leave him in the poisonous lair known as royal court, he had given an astonishingly vivid description of the day Daemon had been granted Aegon the Conqueror's sword and still, the anger underneath that he was too young to hide fully but tried to upset Baelor. Aerys was absent-minded and Rhaegel was – well, Rhaegel. But none of them tried to hide what he felt. Baelor could say that his mother had felt it as well and was even more upset than him. "The King is ruining him," she told Baelor's father that same night. "With every year he's kept here, he's becoming more estranged from us."

Fortunately, she stopped herself before exclaiming that the King should die already and why wasn't he dying? In the Red Keep, there were those who could say when a mouse had sneezed in the wall or something.

Still, his grandfather was not dying. He even dragged himself to the practice yard the next day as Baelor threw his broken lance down and took a throwing spear instead, frowning at the centre of the target that seemed too wide. He ordered at the men to narrow it and take the pole a little further down the yard – only to miss the bull's eye by an inch.

Wheezing laughter made him aware of the presence of the King. He bowed from the saddle, noticing how his grandfather's eyes, deeply sunken into the fat of his face, narrowed. "Not bad," Aegon allowed. "But you could do better. Does it need to be a spear, though? It's so… Dornish. You're Dornish enough without it, I'd think."

Baelor ground his teeth, said nothing, went to retrieve the spear from the target for a new try. Unfortunately, the King was waiting for him to return because he chose this moment to say to his companions, "It's a shame that my grandson isn't more interested in swordplay. If he practices hard enough, one day he and his brother can settle the matter of Dark Sister among themselves."

The insult was such that Baelor could not keep the blood from rising to his dark cheeks and turn them even darker. Maekar might be showing some remarkable prowess and martial talent but he was a _child_. Six years younger than Baelor! This was not a compliment to him, it was an affront to Baelor… and dismissal of both of them together. The fawners laughed obediently, although for the first time, Baelor could hear some reluctance in the sound, now that he was almost grown up. They did not like turning him against them, even to please Aegon.

The one who would not care wasn't there and Baelor remembered the conversation that he had overheard the day before.

"Why didn't you bow when you saw Prince Baelor enter?" Jon Waters, ever the faithful companion, had asked.

"He isn't the Prince of Dragonstone yet," Daemon had replied haughtily.

"This doesn't matter at all," Jeyne, Jon's twin, had said angrily. "To Prince Baelor, everyone owes a bow. Even my lady mother, a true Princess, curtseys whenever she meets him."

That was not strictly true but it felt nice to be defended so fiercely. He would not demean himself by showing that he had noticed Daemon's disrespect now, when it would be likely interpreted like a…

"She's a woman," Daemon had insisted. "And I am a knight. I carry the sword every great Targaryen warrior had wielded…"

_That's why you were given it, wasn't it,_ Baelor thought now. _To leave us, the half-Dornish ones, squabbling over the less illustrious Dark Sister._ He steered the sand steed a little further than the place of his last attempt, threw the spear against the target again and this time, it hit the bull's eye.

 


	6. Rhaegel

Daeron would never admit to having favourites among his sons and in fact, he did not have them. But he would never admit to relating to some of them more easily than the others either – which was the case. He could say that Mariah had felt instant love for two of them and not the other two but it had all fallen in place with time for her. For him, time only made relating easier or harder, respectively, which was it was so easy for him to guess where he would find Aerys and so hard to actually start certain conversations – because they were so much alike in temper that he never knew how to start talking about matters in which they actually differed.

Under the shadow of the White Sword Tower, it was easy to miss someone on the grass. That was the reason Aerys loved it here. That was the reason Daeron had loved it as well.

"So, what are you reading?"

The boy looked up, guilt crossing his face and going away so fast that Daeron might think he had imagined it. "Something," he replied evasively. His anxiety was clear and Daeron sighed inwardly. He had hoped that he'd find his son in good humour but it looked like he'd have to say goodbye to the brief minutes of rest before meeting the Tyroshi envoys. This was the not so nice side of being a father: even a generally good lad like Aerys could surprise you from time to time.

He waited for his son to ask the question but Aerys, although kind and averse to tensions, could be as mulish as his mother. Daeron sat on the stone bench – of course, Aerys had not made use of it and was sitting in the wet grass, although he made sure to keep the book dry – and waited. And then waited some more. Just when he thought Aerys would win this one because he simply had no more time to waste – the envoys, the envoys! – the boy sighed and asked reluctantly, "How is he?"

"Do you care?"

Aerys stiffened. "If I ask."

"He's better."

The boy's relief was clear, yet Daeron felt irate. "Do you not feel any guilt?"

"No."

The answer was so spontaneous that Daeron's hand itched to slap him. He had never done this. Not to Aerys. Not to any of the others. "I saw what happened, Aerys. He could have died."

"But he didn't." There was defiance in the boy's eyes when they met his father's. "We didn't look our best, did we? I didn't know we had an audience and he… he didn't know a thing."

This brazenness, this lack of remorse was like a slap in Daeron's face. In the shadow Aerys' purple eyes looked dark like Mariah's and behind them, the dark ghosts danced: the vicious, violent Aegon, Aerys' grandfather; the other Aegon who had fed his own sister to her dragon; the old Martells of his mother's blood who had kept Queen Rhaenys barely alive to use her...

"He scared me," Aerys suddenly said and the flames died. "I thought he would… I wasn't thinking."

In the distance, a group of courtiers appeared, laughing and strutting around, like they had no care in the world. Daeron felt as if he had to brave the weight of the entire said world. "I expect of you to think," he said. "Especially when Rhaegel is unable to. Next time, you may kill both of you, you know."

Aerys smiled and from this smile, shivers ran down Daeron's back. He knew this smile – his father had used to smile like this when he had wanted to say that the person before him did not know a thing. "I'll try," he only said and Daeron's ever present concern flared anew. What would become of Rhaegel one day? To this day, he had never rationally doubted that the boy's brothers would take care of him but this push right against the edge of the new niche… If mild-mannered Aerys could do such a thing, who could say what lurked behind Maekar's façade? Or Baelor's? Aerys had not even promised that it would not happen again.

"I'll go now," Daeron said, feeling that he had not achieved anything here. Only then did he notice the title of the book the boy was still holding, forgetting to hide it. A book that was strictly forbidden to be taken out of the library, if Daeron was not mistaken – and he could not mistake the red sign glinting at him like a fiery eye. A book on diseases of mind.

At least Aerys was trying to find a way to heal his brother. Of course, Daeron knew it would not help. But at least he was trying. Still, worry gripped him, this time for Aerys and not Rhaegel. At his son's age, he had already known that not all questions would find their answers in a book. What was more, he had been aware that life was meant for living and not reading about other people's lives.

* * *

The wound was such a small one that it would not likely even bring a fever. Just a few nights of discomfort. Even Mariah had felt reassured enough to leave his side and go back to her routine. Still, staring at the pallid face and the hands resting on the cover, knowing that Rhaegel would wake up confused and having no idea of anything, let alone what had happened made Daeron feel even more sick knowing that it had been Aerys who was responsible.

"What happened?" Baelor asked when they passed each other at the door.

Daeron looked around to make sure that no one was listening and drew his son in the bedchamber. "Aerys happened."

Baelor did not look surprised. "Ah," he said, peering at his brother. "He'll be fine."

"Don't you want to know what Aerys did?" Daeron asked. Today seemed to be the day his sons had decided to teach him how little he knew about them! He almost looked around expecting to see Maekar – who would also be unsurprised. If the two he knew better could take him aback, then what on earth lurked beneath Maekar's always sullen, hooded eyes?

"Not particularly," Baelor said. "But I suppose you're going to tell me anyway."

He was getting quite insolent for a fifteen-year-old. Daeron pushed his irritation back. "Rhaegel was having one of his spells. I'll give it to Aerys that he looked quite… excited. I came just in time to see Aerys pushing him against the mantelpiece. Rhaegel was not even touching him or reaching for him."

Nothing on Baelor's face changed. "No, I suppose he wasn't. One should be there to understand it, I suppose. No, not there like you were," he added, seeing that his father was ready to say something. "But being there in our position. When… excitement overtakes him."

Daeron scowled, disliking where the conversation was heading. "He was never violent."

"He never means to be violent," Baelor corrected. "This isn't the same thing. When we're scared enough of what he could do without meaning to, reason flees away. You look at things like a man grown who was always strong enough to restrain him without any danger for him or yourself. This hasn't been the way with us. Each of us has been in the position that you saw today… at least a few times. Aerys just drew the short stick. And besides, I'm already much stronger than Rhaegel and Maekar is getting there too. I suppose we'll be less susceptible to these impulses. Aerys? I don't know. But I do know that you aren't being fair."

Of course Baelor was defending his brother. No matter their differences and the nasty tricks they played on each other, before their parents' disapproval the boys were like a wall. "If you feel this way, why none of you ever told me or your mother?"

Baelor's shoulders moved, as if he had started to shrug. "We tried. You simply told us that he wasn't violent over and over."

Daeron stared at him, shell-shocked. Looking at the bed, a memory came to him with clarity that made him gasp. Rhaegel, four year old, suddenly seeing something unknown but undoubtedly evil in the toy lion Maekar was pushing across the carpet. He had lunged at it, screaming, but Maekar hadn't relinquished the offending toy. It had all had ended in less than a minute, with Maekar bleeding from a puncture very close to the eye and Rhaegel in hysterics. How could he have forgotten?

Rhaegel stirred in the bed and Baelor was there in two strides, outstripping his father to check the wound and put a cloth soaked in water to his brother's lips. Then, he looked at his father and smiled. "I think he's better already," he said.

At least someone was. Daeron certainly wasn't and the same was true for Aerys, most likely. Daeron remembered his father's blind hatred for Dorne and his ridiculous iron dragons and realized that he had failed on one of his most important self-imposed tasks: never to see the world as he would like it to be, as opposed to how it was.

 


	7. Aerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented, it means a lot!

 Books had always fascinated him with the new worlds that they revealed to him. The power they had. The memory they embodied. The past they preserved.

They also scared him with the distortion they could turn everything into.

"Is this all that you can see?" he challenged and the young Maester Ivel, barely some ten years his senior, looked startled, his delight at being chosen to commit the weekly doings of the royal court disappearing under the icy disapproval of his fifteen-year-old pupil who had always looked up to him with admiration.

"Is there something that I have failed to see, Your Grace?" he asked, after a brief pause.

Aerys gave him a long look. "Where are you from?" he asked, instead of answering.

"The Red Watch," Maester Ivel replied.

"House Swann?"

The young man shook his head. "A much lowborn family, I'm afraid," he said, upset. He had never suspected that Prince Aerys was so choosy when it came to the company he held. As young as the boy was, he was known to rever his father's councilors and the maesters without caring who was even trueborn. With him, Ivel had felt cherished and respected… and now, this.

Even in the Citadel, there was this difference between those who had been just born lucky and those who… hadn't.

Aerys was staring at him, his purple eyes suddenly sad and reconciled. "I suppose it doesn't matter," he said at the end. "A man from the Dornish Marches is a man from the Dornish Marches, House Swann or not. People are never satisfied with what they have."

Now, Ivel looked even more puzzled. Aerys looked away, lest the anger on his face became evident because he knew that the young maester was innocent in the turmoil, as big as his part in it was. But the shifts that had started taking place since Aerys' father had ascended the Iron Throne had started to become more obvious – and it seemed that they were going to be written down the entirely wrong way. No wonder if the one writing them down was a man from the Marches! Every little favour the Dornishmen and women at court had received was bound to be duly noted and the ones who gained the real influence, overlooked. The real beneficiaries of royal favour – the Marcher lords…

What did these people wish for? What more? Baelor had wed a Dondarrion whose father had immediately received the elevated position of an additional member of the Small Council, bringing a good number of fellow Marchers at court where they had all received offices. House Penrose had received a royal match and a seat at the Small Council as well. A flock of Marcher girls with no enviable future before them had made grand matches at court or the rest of the kingdom. Upon the wedding, the lands of the Marcher lords had received a considerable diminishing of their taxes for the year, something that Dorne had not received upon Daenerys' wedding. Trade had already started to get stronger there and yet, it was never enough for those who looked with envy at every small gain any Dornishman made. Ivel had written them fastidiously down and Aerys had little doubt that this was how his father's reign would stay in the annals: as unfairly favouring the Dornish as the really favoured ones would never be mentioned. Why would they? It was their due. Especially in the eyes of a maester from the Dornish Marches.

This far, the Citadel was failing spectacularly at living up to its claims to erase all former allegiances in the ones who studied there.

Aerys stared at the books littering Maester Ivel's writing table. Many of them were chronicles and he wondered what they did not tell him and what they skewed.

Still, without books it would be even worse. Or would it? How could the world be ready for the return of the dragons if it did not even know that they would return?

* * *

Swords had always repulsed him and over time, the feeling had just grown – with each failure, each critical remark , each time the masters teaching arms at the Red Keep bit back shouts and insults that they generously gave other boys for the same unsuccess. He suffered through them, long ago reconciled with the idea that his purpose and way of serving Westeros lay down another path. He tried not to pay attention at the disappointment his time in the practice yard was – but sometimes, it was so hard. Like the day he actually saw Quentyn Ball in the yard during his own practice – or rather, Maekar's practice. The master-at-arms was generally absent for Aerys' lessons, unable to hide his disappointment but equally unable to declare that he would absolutely not deal with such a lame duck and the first time Aerys saw him basically circling around Maekar, it came as a blow because he immediately realized what this meant: Quentyn Ball who had abandoned all hopes for him had seen in Maekar something worth developing, something that he could take pride in, and Aerys found out that there was something else that books did not tell their reader: the resentment when a younger brother proved himself better. Aerys tried to remind himself that while Maekar might give their House good name and standing now, he was working for the future but it did not help.

Living now. It was both humbling and distressing to find that such an insignificant thing as martial skill could overshadow it, if only for a moment.

* * *

"How can the world ever be ready for the return of the dragons?" he asked over the table where they were all breaking their fast, a rare occurrence the royal family only indulged in once a week, with the princes getting up at dawn and the King and Queen even earlier. "When there is the growing belief that they will not return? That they are a thing of the past?"

"Well, they are a thing of the past," Aelinor Penrose replied, resuming the argument the two of them often had. "No matter what happens a hundred years from now, today, at this hour, they're a thing of the past."

Usually, he'd love to start one of their long arguments that were a threat and delight for both of their reasoning abilities but today, he could say that she had said the words without thinking, too busy to bat her eyelids at one of Baelor's companions, Richard Someone or Rogger Somebody to truly pay attention. A closer look showed him that at the age of fourteen, she was well on her way to becoming a woman – and preoccupied with this, as well. Her gown was actually a colour that suited her colouring very much, her hair styled like a lady's and not a girl's. He felt a stinging disappointment. He had thought that she was different, that her unusually sharp mind and focus that was broadened beyond the usual manners, embroidery, and lessons in household keeping set her apart from other girls. She would likely keep being his intellectual companion but she would not only be this. Right now, at this table it dawned upon him that she would wed, have children, get immersed in things worldly and earthly and she would be lost for the higher art and skill of learning, trying to see beyond the veil standing between them and the great secrets of life and future tantalizingly thin and almost see-through. Almost.

"I hope you all have a nice day," he said, rising. "I'm going to the library."

He noticed, pleased, that his mother did not insist that he ate more. Mariah Martell had mastered the difficult skill to leave her sons deal with trivial things on their own as they grew older. His father did not say anything at all, undoubtedly thinking of the letter that he had received yesterday – the likely reason to forget about his promise to come to the library to discuss a confusing passage of Aenar the Exile's story with Aerys.

In the library, Brynden looked up. His eyes were uniformly red all around, showing that he had had little sleep if any at all.

"The trees were restless last night," he said by the way of greeting and Aerys felt a rush of both pride and affection, neither of which came easily to him. Brynden would not share such a thing with just anyone, for his ability to see things in an area commonly treated as a place for retreat would brand him either as a sorcerer or a liar; but he never hesitated before confessing it to Aerys.

"Come on, " Aerys said, taking a seat on the bench next to Brynden who moved a little away to make room for him. "Tell me all about it."

In such early an hour, no librarian was awake. Only the servant opening the windows to let some air in to freshen the huge chamber with many vaulted ceilings where the smell of ink and old parchments permeated everything, gave the boys a look. Undoubtedly he thought them strange and perhaps a little mad but that was fine with Aerys. As long as he knew the flame burning in both him and Brynden to light Westeros' way to future and preservation beyond petty politics and feuds of the day, everything was just the way it should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and best wishes to everyone!


	8. Maekar

"Where is my mother?"

Surely she would be here? She always was when he was sick.

"She'll come soon," his nursemaid, Maryse, said but Maekar suddenly had this memory that she had said the same thing many times as he lay in this bed, fighting the monsters that kept dancing before his eyes. Mariah had never come.

"Why isn't she here?" he insisted, although his eyes were closing again. "Why didn't she come?"

Maryse's cool hand touched his forehead, checking for fever. "She'll come as soon as she can," she said as his eyelids drop. He vaguely thought that he had heard her say, "Hold on, little one, you have done so much already. Hold on. It's you and me now."

But he was not sure if these were her words, or something that one of the monsters whispered.

"Your parents had to leave for Dragonstone," Maryse told him the day he was well enough to sit in bed. "You know how many duties they have there. They thought it would be better to leave you here with me until you were healthy again and could join them."

"I'm healthy already!" the boy protested. "I can rise. Look!" He actually managed to rise in bed and hold still for a moment before his head lolled and the world started spinning. Maryse caught him and pushed him back against the pillows.

"When you're healthy," she said again but even at the age of four, he knew that she was lying.

When he was healthy again, the person who appeared in his chamber was not his mother but his grandfather instead. Maekar drew back against the headboard. While he disliked the maesters' penchant to punish the lack of attention with the birch, he was not scared of them. King Aegon, though… Maekar could feel that his parents were afraid of him and that made his own fear rise. This mountain of flesh in rich robes, with small eyes staring maliciously at Mariah was not who he expected and wanted.

"So, he's truly made it with just a few scars. " King Aegon said slowly, his eyes not evil but thoughtful this time as they took in the boy's face. "The speckled monster is considered generally unbeatable and yet a child so young…" He paused. "There might be something about you that I have misjudged, Maekar. You might turn out to be a truer Targaryen than your weak father."

"My father is not weak," Maekar claimed, although he could barely talk through his trembling.

Aegon stared at him and then chuckled. "Misjudged you, indeed! Very well, boy. You're made of sterner stuff than I ever gave you credit for. You deserve better than those at Dragonstone can teach you. When you're recovered enough, we'll start with your education."

His smile was slow and such that Maekar suddenly wished not to recover enough at all but recover he did… only to get Maester Atol, a tall lean man in his sixty, come into the study with a book that Maekar soon learned to hate. The Conquest of Dorne, it was named, and while it could read like a story of knights and valour, the child noticed things that were simply not true and did not hesitate to say so.

"There are no stony Dornishmen, salty Dornishmen, and sandy Dornishmen," he claimed. "My mother says so."

"And do you think that your lady mother knows better than King Daeron?" the maester demanded.

"Of course she does."

This earned him his first punishment with a birch here. It was also the start of his neverending strife with his tutor who seemed intent on imparting in Maekar hatred and fear towards his mother's land and its people. One of the first things he was supposed to write here was the sentence, " _Dorne is a cesspit of treachery that only begets snakes. "_ He did not know what _beget_ meant but he knew it wasn't anything good.

This was his second punishment. After his third, King Aegon got apprised of the situation but to Maekar's relief, he seemed to blame the maester. "What do you mean, _obstinate_? No matter how obstinate he is, you should be able to deal with him. He's four year old. You're here to teach, so teach him."

Maester Atol kept persisting, as well as the other maesters and septons. But when Maekar was allowed to go to Dragonstone for a month, the maesters there were horrified. "He's only been taught religion and old scrolls, and reading and writing for good measure," he overheard Maester Goral tell his father. "No languages. Nothing about the different regions in the realm. In fact, I'd think that he was purposely kept back in his studies."

"I won't be surprised if this is the case," Daeron said grimly. "Look what you can do to fill the gaps."

The old man stared at him. "Perhaps I'm not being clear, Your Grace," he said. "His entire education is a gap. He hasn't been taught anything of any practical use."

"I heard you just right the first time," Daeron snapped. "Fill it, I said! Even if you have to teach him day and night, letting go off the others."

"Now, that's too harsh," Mariah interjected. "Do you hear yourself? Teach him day and night? He's five, my lord! There are limits to how much he can reasonably take."

His eyes rested on her, hard and unyielding. "Perhaps I was too rash with my words," he acknowledged. "But he'll have to put forth more effort than ever, Mariah. The King is trying to turn him into what you and I dislike and disdain. Keep him ignorant. Useless. I won't have it."

"Quiet! He's listening."

Daeron spun around and his anger and helplessness erupted. "How many times should I tell you not to listen on other people's conversations! Has your grandfather succeeded in his quest to turn you?"

"Shut up!" Mariah snapped, took her son by the hand and quickly led him out of his father's study. "Don't listen to him, Maekar. Your father is very tired and angry. It has nothing to do with you."

Disappointment struck him worse than any birch. To this moment, his mother had never lied to him. Never. But he knew his father's anger had everything to do with him. Him and his grandfather. Still, he'd rather stay here than go back there and he told her so. She clasped him tight to her. "I don't want you to go back either," she said. "But it isn't up to us. We must all obey the King. But you'll remember that if I could keep you here, I would, will you?"

"Yes," he said and indeed, this was the tiny light that he held on during his stay at his grandfather's court as he was taught things that had little practical use and values that would only pit him against his parents.

He was six when he realized that the gaps in his education were present in his mastery of arms as well. The men tutoring him were replaced with new ones who kept imparting the wrong techniques. Years later, he would realize that they were not ill-intentioned as much as simply incompetent. They did what they could – but neither of them had as much as seen a battle. Tourney knights, that was what they were, and a tourney knight they were preparing. A decoration. Of course, no one even thought to teach him strategy.

"I'll take over his lessons," Quentyn Ball said one day and Maekar was surprised because the master at-arms rarely intervened personally, except for checking progress and tutoring Daemon, of course. Everyone wanted to have part in Daemon's lessons, so they could claim some part in building his excellence. "I want to see you ready to kill," he told Maekar, glancing at his stance disapprovingly. "Not posing in the tourney field. Show me some kill! And grasp this spear better. Here. We'll start by holding it close to the head and then, we'll gradually start going further up. Mastering the balance is what matters, else you'll find yourself following the spear, instead of it following you."

As grateful as he was for the change, Maekar could not fathom what he owed it to. Over time, he'd realize how much he owed Quentyn Ball, for it was much easier to teach arms to those who had never held one than straighten deeply imparted wrong ways. But he could not see the reason. Only years later, when Daeron was king and it was safe to ask certain questions, he did.

"Because it's a sin in the eyes of the Seven to teach a child improperly," the Fireball said gruffly and Maekar looked at him in surprise. He had thought that Quentyn Ball cared not for things like sins, after sending his own wife to the Silent Sisters so he could join the Kingsguard at the first chance. And as time passed, and the Fireball turned a traitor and took arms against them, he tried not to forget that he owed the man. As small and faint as his flame might look compared to his brothers, it was his own and he was grateful that he had not been forced to start lighting it back from the start.

* * *

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if this is going to be a four-shot, one for each prince, or something else. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I wish you all a Happy New Year!


End file.
